Existing while black

It had been three years since the last time I was pulled over by a police officer.

That last time was in Fontana. I was going like two miles over the speed limit in a school zone. The officer was a young dude who looked like he’d probably pledged SigEp in college and acted like writing me a ticket was a total hassle: “Sorry, the parents in this neighborhood have been complaining.” I could almost hear the “bro” on the tip of his tongue. He told me to fight it because the odds were good he wouldn’t be making it to court that day—wink, wink—so it was likely my ticket would be dropped (it eventually was). I went on about the rest of my errands, barely even thinking to share with my friends how I’d been inconvenienced that morning.

But this time was different. I was rolling along on the freeway in the thickening rush-hour traffic, mumbling along to whatever mumble rapper was on the radio, enjoying the summer sun and looking forward to rest of my day. Really, the rest of my life. Then, a racket of red and blue lit up on the cop car behind me. I pulled over. I sat on the side of the road at 4 p.m. on a Monday afternoon and wondered: Is this it?

The names of Black folks lost to police violence have been coming so quickly, I barely learn one name before another enters the news cycle. I read each name, each story and send my friends heart-likes for their heartbroken social media posts. I do not watch the videos or listen to the audio—I have to hold it together somehow. So, I doubt there are many people who look like me and don’t worry about what will happen next when they're sitting in their car and watching the officer approach.

The officer smiled at me in my side-view mirror and gave a little wave. He didn’t touch his holster, but still that is where my eyes went. The handle sticking out was green, so it probably wasn’t a gun, just a Taser. But I know Tasers can kill too. I’m ashamed to admit that I began tallying up my privileges, “At least I’m a woman… At least I’m light-skin… At least I read as middle class… At least I have a clean record… At least I’m in a nice part of town…”

When the officer asked me to roll my window down a little bit more, I pawed at the buttons in panic because they weren’t working.

“Maybe you have to start the car back up?” he gently suggested. I was worried because I was sweaty and I hadn’t quite caught my breath yet from being at the gym. Did that make me look suspicious? According to juries and judges and plaintiffs across America, looking suspicious is an offense worthy of death when you’re Black in America.

Even though the police have just killed a mother in Seattle in front of her children after she called them for help following a burglary, it is the officer who asked me to help him feel more comfortable.

“Can you take your sunglasses off? They’re messing with me.” The lense were mirrored, and he didn’t like looking at himself. I apologized and removed them.

He explained that he’d pulled me over for “following too closely.” He told me not to worry, he was only going to give me a warning, but it would be a documented warning. So, even without a ticket, it’s now more likely I’ll be pulled over again. It’s now more likely I’ll be one more dead Black person whose family won’t see justice. Philando Castile was pulled over 49 times before a police officer shot him seven times. The last time was because of a busted brake light.

The officer made small talk with me and asked about what I do for a living.

“I meet such interesting people on the road,” he said. I could tell he was doing everything he could to let me know he’s “one of the good ones.” That he’d seen the same news I’ve seen, and that he knew how he and his uniform and whatever was in his holster made me fearful. He was trying to let me know he was witnessing my humanity. And he wasn’t any more threatening than the officer who’d pulled me over in Fontana. But still, when I pulled away I began crying uncontrollably. It took 30 minutes to calm down. I wasn’t aware of the mental feats my mind had been managing under the weight of all the news to keep me together. Even though the police have killed 142 Black people six months into 2017, my tears felt overly dramatic.

A friend I made while in grad school told me that one day the UC Riverside campus police pulled their guns on him for having expired tags. He said that in that moment he was more concerned about their fear of him than his own fear of them. And after, he went to his history class like nothing happened. That’s existing while Black in America. Brushing off trauma is the norm and a routine traffic stop can trigger grief.